


The Opposite of Love

by blancafic



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 4x20, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Related, Episode: s04e20 Farewell Cruel World, F/M, Fix-It, The Framework Universe (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 21:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14680059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blancafic/pseuds/blancafic
Summary: What if Jemma hadn't killed Papa Fitz in the Framework? Would she be able to get through to Fitz before they escaped?





	1. The Opposite of Love

Her plan -- if she can even call it that -- had worked. Maybe not exactly as she'd intended, but Fitz is on his way and that's all that matters.

She looks over at the elder Fitz, bound by his hands and feet to a chair, head lolling forward as he passes in and out of consciousness. His shirt is torn open at the shoulder, revealing a makeshift bandage soaked with red, holding for now. She'd seen to it, knowing Fitz would be more inclined to talk to her if he didn't find his father bleeding out on the floor. 

It's so bizarre being alone with him here. Nothing she does will make any difference in the real world, but she still feels the urge to unload on this despicable man, to tell him his son was strong and smart and good and worth a million times more than he would ever amount to. But she doesn't say another word. Thankfully, neither does he.

It's not long before Fitz arrives. She hears the clicking of his dress shoes coming down the hall and braces herself to face the Framework's twisted version of the man she loves most in any world. The image of him shooting Agnes still haunts her. She hadn't known what she was up against then -- the powerful hold of the false memories that had callused his soul, wrapped him in a protective hide so thick she could barely recognize him. Her Fitz is still in there somewhere, if she can only figure out how to reach him.

She takes a deep breath and opens the door. 

"Jemma Simmons." Her name sounds strangely unfamiliar on his tongue, sharp and dripping with venom. He says the words as if they are a curse. As if they aren't his two favorite words in the English language. "Seems you finally found me."

He pushes the door wider and lets himself in, accompanied by a pair of Hydra goons with their guns drawn. At the sight of his father, injured and tied to a chair, he turns on her. "What have you done?"

"I can explain," she offers, struggling to keep her voice even. "It was an accident."

"Nothing you've done has been an accident! You _shot_ my _father_!" His anger is close to the surface, but there is something underneath it, something skittish.

"Only a little," she says, smiling apologetically. The look he gives her in response almost makes her laugh. She bites her bottom lip and notes how his posture changes from threatening to utterly baffled. 

"Are you mad?" he asks, pressing his palms together, and for the first time since she came to this nightmare world she recognizes something in him. This is how he reacts whenever he thinks she's being ridiculous, like the time she said it might be fun to try cliff diving in Mexico. Or when she suggested they leave the comfort of their Sci-Ops lab to join a team in the field.

"It's just a minor soft-tissue injury," she reassures him. "Easily repaired. I dressed the wound myself. He's going to be fine."

"Oh, is that your professional opinion _Doctor Simmons_?" There's that vitriolic tone again. He really does hate her.

"I am so sorry." She holds her hands up in submission. "I just wanted to talk. I didn't know any other way. But then he attacked me and the gun went off. And I'm just really, really sorry."

He shakes his head, done arguing with her for now. His attention turns to his father.

"Call in a medical team," he calls over his right shoulder. As the soldier repeats the order thorough a comm link, Fitz kneels down in front of the chair. Without looking away he sweeps his hand toward Jemma. "And take her in for questioning."

She recalls her training and assesses the situation. Two big men in body armor with very big guns. Plus Fitz, and who knows what he's capable of here. May could take them. Daisy too, with her powers. Possibly even without. But she's just Jemma and her chances aren't good. Which leaves her with only one course of action.

The gun is sitting on the desk next to her, within easy reach. She snatches it and levels it at Alistair Fitz's head. "No," she says simply.

The guards freeze, awaiting confirmation of their orders. Fitz scrambles to his feet.

"This has gone on far too long," Alistair growls through gritted teeth. "Take the bitch out. Do it now."

"Tell your men to back off," she snaps at the younger Fitz, the Fitz she still thinks of as hers. "I fixed one bullet hole today, but I can make another." 

"Stand down!" he commands. The guards lower their guns, but don't retreat. He addresses Jemma directly, his tone appeasing. "Let's just figure this out, all right? That's my father there. You don't have to hurt him."

"I know who he is, Fitz. And believe me, if you were in your right mind you'd be thanking me."

"Just put the gun down. We can work this out."

"Listen to yourself, son." Alistair doesn't even try to hide his disgust. She swears, not for the first time, that if she ever meets this man in real life, it's not going to be pretty. "Cowering before a woman. Pathetic. Take the shot."

She struggles to hold the gun steady in her shaking hands. 

"Your father tried to kill me, Fitz. Do you comprehend that? He got on top of me and wrapped his hands around my neck. He would have strangled me to death if I hadn't stopped him. Think about that. Doesn't it bother you?"

His jaw tightens, very slightly. To anyone else it would be imperceptible. But she is not anyone else.

"You want a hostage?" he says, raising his hands. "Take me instead. I'm the one you want. Leave him alone."

"Gladly."

The swiftness of her movement takes them all by surprise. In a blink she's behind Fitz, one hand across his chest, the other holding a gun to his temple.

She addresses the soldiers directly. "We're walking out of here now. Just the two of us. Make one move to follow and I'll put a bullet through your dear leader's brain."

"That's not going to work," says Alistair, with more force than she thought he could muster in his condition. Even tied up and bleeding from a gunshot wound, he manages to look like a man in charge. She thinks for a moment he's calling her bluff, that he believes what she said before about not being able to hurt Fitz. But that's not what this is. "You should have let her shoot me, Leopold. I won't make the same mistake."

"Dad?" Fitz says, the single syllable laced with hurt and disbelief. Jemma's heart breaks a little more for him.

"Hydra doesn't negotiate with terrorists. Shoot to kill."

She hears the rumbling sound before she feels it. Suddenly, the ground is unstable beneath their feet and everyone's scrambling for balance. It happens so fast, neither of the guards can get a shot off. 

Backup has arrived, just in the nick of time. 

"I got this," says Daisy. "Get Fitz out of here. I'll cover your exit."

Jemma nods and shoves the gun into the back of her pants. She grabs Fitz's hand and heads for the door. To her surprise, he lets her lead him, stumbling mindlessly behind. His father's willingness to sacrifice him without a second thought has him rattled. Good. She needs him rattled.

Jemma hears the sounds of fighting behind her as they reach the hallway. The last thing she sees in the room is Daisy quaking Alistair and the two guards into the wall. Threat neutralized, she rushes out to join them in the hallway.

"We found the back door," Daisy tells Jemma. "Coulson and May got out."

"What about Mack?" Daisy doesn't answer, but her look says it all. Jemma nods in understanding. "Okay. Let's go."

She reaches for Fitz's hand again, but he just stands there, immobile. He pulls his hand back as if her touch might burn him. "I'm not going anywhere with you. You want to destroy this world. You want to destroy me. You want to destroy the woman that I love."

"Fitz, _I'm_ the woman you love."

"No," he says flatly. "You mean nothing to me."

And there it is.

His eyes dart to the left. Twice.

It's unmistakable.

He's lying.

"I can force you to come with us, you know," Daisy says with a challenging smirk.

"Like you _forced_ Madame Hydra out a window?"

Jemma gives them both a placating smile. "Can you give us just one moment, Daisy?"

"We don't have a moment. AIDA is onto us. She's already rewritten the code around the portal once. By now it could be at the center of a volcano."

"Is that true?" Jemma asks Fitz. "Could AIDA have rewritten the code for the back door already?"

"Her name is Ophelia," he insists.

Jemma rolls her eyes.

"We don't have time for this." She reaches for a nearby fire extinguisher on the wall. Before he can react she bashes the back of his skull with it and he crumples into a heap on the floor. "Sorry, Fitz."

Daisy shrugs. "That's one way to get him to come, I guess."


	2. The Opposite of Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so what's been going on in poor Fitz's mixed-up brain? Let's find out, shall we?

He wanted to believe all the trouble had started the minute he'd heard about the subversive Jemma Simmons. But if he was being honest, it had really started before that.

Not all at once, but in small increments. Like death by a thousand paper cuts. At first there was an indefinable nagging sensation at the base of his skull. Something that felt off. Had he lost something? Left something behind? None of his possessions were missing, as far as he could tell. Yet no matter what he told himself, the thoughts wouldn't go away. And then there was the constant yearning, a longing for something (or someone?) he couldn't name. 

The feeling only grew.

And then he saw her picture. Curiosity became a fixation, which became an obsession. He couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Could barely focus beyond the operation at hand. He masked it well. Years of practice keeping his emotions in check -- thanks to his father's stern guidance -- had made him an expert at maintaining the appearance of control. Even when he was coming apart at the seams. Especially then.

His work on Project Looking Glass was a useful distraction. As well as Ophelia herself, of course. If the subversive was intent on destroying everything they had built, he'd make sure they were untouchable. This woman would be brought to justice for her crimes. But before that, perhaps she might be useful as a source. She could be the key to uncovering and defeating the resistance. The only course of action was to find her, capture her, and interrogate her. He'd have to do it himself. No one else was up to such a task. 

The island mission hadn't been a total loss. He'd eliminated one potential threat and taken another into custody. Yet none of these small victories brought him any satisfaction. If anything, the incident made things worse. After that day, the cracks forming within him began to split open into a gaping chasm. Nothing could fill it, not even Ophelia. It was the first secret he'd ever kept from her. To compensate, he doubled his efforts to please her, which only added guilt to the list of emotions he had to suppress. 

It was her voice that did him in. He can still hear her in his head, calling his name, over and over. Back on the island, he'd searched for the source of the sound, unable to breathe until he saw her with his own two eyes. For an instant, the shattered fragments of his psyche fell into place. He felt whole. But only for an instant. Then the panic set in and obliterated everything else. 

She shouldn't be here. She had to leave. She was in danger. 

_NO._

She _is_ the danger. 

Isn't she?

The evidence is right in front of him. He is her hostage, in the literal sense now as well as the metaphorical. Betrayed in every way possible. If he ever gets out of here, he'll make her pay.

She's taken him to some sort of industrial space. A warehouse maybe? Some kind of mill? She sits on the floor across the room, back to the wall, arms hugging her legs. Waiting. His first thought when he came to was to go to her. His next thought was to question where that thought had come from.

"You're awake," she says brightly. "Sorry about the . . ."

She makes a smashing motion in the air with two hands. He doesn't know what she hit him with, but judging by the position of her hands, it wasn't small. He rubs the back of his head and groans. She winces in sympathy.

"Your head must be pounding,"

She's not wrong. He watches her carefully as she gets up and dusts herself off. She really does have a nice figure, objectively speaking. She comes over and plops down next to him. Her closeness makes him want to crawl out of his skin. It's uncomfortable, this feeling of being so comfortable with her.

"Where are we?" he asks. His voice sounds small and distant in his ears.

"I don't know. Daisy got us here. I was too busy keeping an eye on you. I'm afraid I gave you a rather large concussion."

"Well, doctor. Your bedside manner could use some work."

Did he just make a joke? What the hell is wrong with him?

She laughs -- actually laughs -- and pats him on the leg. "Sorry," she says, her laughter dwindling when she sees his puzzled expression. "You'll get why that's funny soon. I hope."

He wants to hear her laugh again. So help him, he wants it more than anything. Ophelia almost never laughs. When she does it comes out forced, an impression of laughter rather than the real thing. No comparison. But why is he comparing them at all?

"Ophelia will find me," he says, trying to convince himself as much as her. He takes some pleasure in watching her hopeful expression sour at the mention of his true love. This woman is getting too familiar with him. She needs to be reminded of her place. "You can break her body, but you can't stop her. You can't stop _us_."

The woman -- _Jemma_ \-- sighs. 

"Its name is AIDA," she says with a force of will he didn't expect. "Artificially Intelligent Digital Assistant. You and Radcliffe created her. And now she's gone rogue. She's been lying to you. Don't you wonder why she did everything in her power to keep you away from me? To stop us from meeting?"

"Because we're in love?" he scoffs. His hand trembles at his side, fingers twitching. He lets out a breath in frustration and stands up. He needs to pace. "Everyone keeps saying that. Why does everyone keep saying that? You're just trying to rip us apart. But it's all a lie. A sick, twisted, BLOODY DAMN LIE!"

He's practically spitting out the words, but she doesn't flinch at his outburst. She doesn't respond or even blink. What she does is smile. 

"Quite a strong reaction to a simple misconception. If it's not true, why does it bother you so much?" 

He doesn't have an answer to that. 

"You . . . you shot my father. Even if . . . " He smooths the sides of his hair with his hands as he flashes back to his father's flat and the steely look on his face as he ordered Fitz's own men to shoot Jemma -- no, _the subversive_ \-- without a moment of consideration for his son's safety. "Look, there's no other way to say this. I don't love you. I don't."

"No, I know," she says, standing to face him. "I know you don't. You hate me."

"Exactly." He extends his arm and nods his head in agreement. Finally, they're on the same page.

"And that's what proves it."

His head stops mid-nod. "Wait. What?"

"Fitz, the opposite of love isn't hate." She looks past the gloss of tears, directly into his eyes, her expression so soft. "It's--"

They say it at the same time. "Indifference."

He's not sure what's just happened, but it suddenly feels as if his chest is made up of stretched-taut piano wires and someone struck a chord. Hard. His whole body vibrates. He covers his mouth with his hand, bending over to keep from blacking out. He's dizzy. Sick to his stomach. 

But he cannot deny it. 

She's right. He feels anger toward her. Resentment. Contempt. Loathing. Even a little fear. But indifference? Definitely not that.

Seeing her smug, triumphant look, he recovers enough to argue. "That doesn't prove anything, Simmons. You're reaching."

"Since when does the second in command of Hydra concern himself with a minor security breach? Yet you've been leading this operation personally from the start. Because I'm not just another subversive, am I? From the moment you heard about me, you've been searching for me. Yourself."

He puts his hands on his hips and turns away from her. "Hunting you would be more accurate."

"Either way. The goal is the same." She stands behind him and puts her hand on his shoulder. He closes his eyes, blocking out everything that isn't her touch. His hand moves up to cover hers, almost of its own accord. She adds, "I've missed you too, by the way."

"You can't miss something you never had," he reminds her. His face is wet with tears. When did he start crying?

"But you did." Her voice is soothing, barely above a whisper. "In the other world. If you don't believe I love you, believe at least that I know you. And you know me."

He turns to face her. The tears in her pretty eyes mirror his own. "How is that possible? I'd never heard your name until a week ago."

"Because your memories have been altered. I'm Jemma Simmons. Bio-chem. I started at S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy when I was 16, one of the youngest recruits ever accepted. I studied relentlessly and graduated at the top of my class. But the truth is, I was just trying to keep up with someone who was even smarter than me. I'm fiercely competitive, obsessively organized, and absolutely rigid when it comes to keeping a clean workspace. And I'm the only one who can read your abysmal handwriting. Any of this ringing a bell?"

This is a trick. Has to be. She's in his head, exploiting his weaknesses, using his emotions against him. His father was right. He is a liability, a waste of power. Whatever pain is in store for him, he deserves it for his lack of character, his inability to fight this. To fight her. Because no matter how hard he tries, he cannot resist the pull of her words. 

She sees the look of defeat in his eyes and presses further.

"Do you write the same here? All those tight, slanty loops, tiny letters, and squiggly lines? It's one of the reasons you started relying so much on technology. At the academy you dragged a massive, beat-up laptop with you in your backpack to every class just to take notes. Do you remember that old thing?" 

"Stop it. Just stop." He puts up his hands defensively, as if that might slow the assault of images flashing through his mind. He tries to focus on his recollections of his life with Ophelia. Their first meeting. Their first kiss. Working their way up through Hydra, side by side. It feels like a 2D movie compared to the fully immersive 3D experience Jemma's account evokes.

"No. You need to hear this, Fitz."

"It's _Doctor_ Fitz."

"I don't care what you call yourself. It doesn't change who you are. You're the smartest, bravest, most caring man I've ever met. In spite of having an abusive jackass for a father. I know you've always wanted a pet monkey. I know your cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink when you've been drinking. I know you can't stand American beer and you love prosciutto and mozzarella sandwiches. Except I bet you've always felt like they're missing something."

She's good. Like one of those phony television psychics from the days before Hydra apprehended anyone who claimed to have superhuman abilities. Even those kooks were more credible than she is. 

And yet. 

How could she possibly know all of those details about him? Down to the world's most frustrating sandwich?

"That something is a hint of pesto aioli, by the way," she adds with a sad smile. He has to admit, it does sound delicious. "And I know that when you said you felt nothing for me, it wasn't true."

He wants to deny it, to tell her she's wrong, but the words won't come. Instead, he asks, "What makes you so sure?"

"Long story, which you already know anyway. Let's just say I've had some training in lie detection."

"What did you do to me?" he demands, though he knows it sounds weak.

"I didn't do anything. That was you, your subconscious telling you that all of this is wrong."

"I couldn't get you out of my head," he says softly, not without pain. "Your picture. Your voice. I told myself I might be able to figure out why if we could only catch you."

"Well, here I am. And I'm asking you to trust me. There's a portal out there that leads to the other world. The real world. Daisy and I are going through it. Come with us. Please, Fitz. You have to wake up."

He'd asked Ophelia to take him with her to the other world before and she'd agreed. Or had she? Now that he thought about it, she'd never said so explicitly. Would she have offered if he hadn't said anything? He had his doubts. More to add to the already massive pile.

"I don't understand. You could have thrown me in when I was unconscious. Why go through all of this?"

"Because I want you to have a choice. Because you're going to remember all of this and I want you to know -- without a doubt -- that when given the choice, you ultimately chose good."

"I'm not choosing good," he says bitterly. "I'm choosing you."

She gives him a smile so brilliant he can still see it when he blinks. "Good enough for me." 

He thinks about those words and all their various meanings. Every one brings up the kinds of emotions he was taught to push down and ignore. The kinds of emotions his father would have called "womanly." Now that he's met her, he doesn't think that's such a bad thing. His looks at Jemma Simmons through watery eyes and smiles back. How had he not noticed how beautiful she was before? She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Then lead the way, Simmons."

They find Agent Skye -- or Daisy, or whoever she is -- standing by on a walkway above a pit of molten metal. They can't be serious. 

"We're ready," Jemma says. Daisy nods and stretches out her arm. The pit comes alive, swirling into a fiery abyss. 

Jemma offers him her hand. When he hesitates, she gives him a reassuring nod and he can't remember the last time he felt something so real.

"It's going to be okay, Fitz. We're going to be okay."

They join hands and take the leap. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at fic in this fandom, so please be kind! I was rewatching the Framework arc recently and had a Phil-Coulson-in-S2-level compulsion to write this alternate ending. My headcannon is that Framework!Fitz was far more emotionally conflicted than he ever let on. This is me showing my work.


End file.
